The Year of Eight Horses
by sakurasencha
Summary: 1930's Shanghai AU. Daughter of KMT official Xinyi takes a ride that will change the course of her life when she comes across Tung, a communist cab driver.
1. Chapter 1

_Hey! This is my contribution to the WWII AU theme, although I'm going about it in a different way. Instead of writing about England and Europe this story takes place on the Pacific front, with a racebending Sybil/Branson in celebration of the Lunar New Year. A few disclaimers: I'm not a reference book on Chinese history or culture, especially the region of Shanghai, so please forgive any inaccuracies. Also a HUGE thanks to foojules who betad this on the fly. To see the accompanying photo set to this story you can visit my tumblr, sakurasencha-tumblr-com._

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><p><strong>Part I : Ladies and Gentlemen I Present to You, The Chen Sisters<strong>

_January, 1930._

Xinyi tugged at her collar. "Ah, I hate these things! It is like being strangled."

From the vanity Meili lifted an eyebrow, though she did not spare her hovering youngest sister a glance. "Stop fussing." Her calm, stiletto voice made all the necessary incisions on its own. "And you cannot in honesty tell me you have never thanked Heaven while walking by the pictures of MaMa in her glory years." Xinyi shuddered, face contorting. How often had she averted her eyes from those looming portraits that lined the halls of their home? Those detached, antiquated images imparted more of their mother than her own memories ever could, not the least of which that pair of staid, watchful eyes peeking out from plateaus of starched cloth, enough fabric to drown in.

Rebuffed, Xinyi roamed over to the full-length mirror. "I do not know how they put up with it. I would have jumped out of a window!"

"And so I would say we escaped the worst and should not complain." Meili staked her point with a stern frown, then twisted around in her chair with a corner turning smile, a pair of jade earrings dangled over her lobes. "What do you think of these?" she asked brightly.

A voice rose from the chair by the door. "Tacky." Jun stared down into her lap as she very casually flicked a page in her magazine.

Meili hurled her a glare. "MeiMei, why are you even here if you have nothing useful to say?"

Jun smiled. "You are the one asking for opinions." She finally looked slowly up, eyes reserved and lofty as if bestowing a great favor. "And in my opinion they look gaudy with that overblown necklace."

Meili's hand twitched, but her only other movement was to narrow her eyes. "What about it?"

Jun flipped a hand through the air. "Where is the restraint? Too big and too much lacks elegance. It reeks of desperation. You will not command attention if everyone in the room can hear you screaming for it." Now Meili fingered the large green pendant resting in the crook of her throat, and Jun pounced upon the motion with a coup d'etat smile. "Do not gild the lily, as NaiNai would say." And her smile stood tall as she turned back to her magazine.

Meili's jaw went rigid. "She would also say to hide behind a fan all night to retain our mysteriousness, advice which you, unfortunately, seem to take very gladly. " Jun's head shot up and she opened her mouth, but any retort was quickly paved over: "And have you really learned so many secrets of fashion from those dreary articles?" Meili asked with a derogatory glance to Jun's magazine. "What would you know besides which book to recommend next, or the excruciating details of some bore of an author who has been dead for over a hundred years?" She laughed. "And more to the point: what would you know of commanding attention, when you never receive any at all, gaudy jewelry or not?" Then she smiled, and slipped each earring on with deliberate and triumphant care.

With a sullen face Jun retreated back to her quiet post of silent sister, attention seemingly buried in her magazine as Meili rose to join Xinyi examining her reflection, and ably ignoring the endemic bickering of her elder sisters.

Xinyi turned from side to side, shuffled her feet, shifted her weight in her restless way. "I do not look _very_ good." She poked a tentative, sidelong look up to her sister who reigned from nearly four inches above, sleek and slender as a fox in her shimmering gown.

Meili placed a reassuring hand on either shoulder. "You are beautiful."

"I think that is _your_ namesake."

"Do not speak so. You have every charm that I do, and probably more. Now, stand up straight and smile. There. They will be eating out of your hand tonight."

Xinyi sighed. "Not when I look exactly the same as everyone else." She looked down over herself and ran a hand down the floral print of her gown, a flutter of pink blossoms spiraling down an ivory satin canvas stretched over her as a second skin. She held her palms on the taut fabric over her midsection that did not lay quite flat, assessed the other lumps and bulges of one who had yet to shed adolescence for womanhood. "I am so tired of qipaos! Everyone wears them, and I want something different."

Jun thrust a dry laugh in their direction. "What you mean is you want to stand out."

"What I mean is I want something that looks good on me!"

"You look fine, BaoBei, as I told you," Meili said. "You were happy with this gown when we picked it out. And if not this, then what?"

"I do not know." Xinyi shook her head. "Something modern -"

"Do not dare say western."

"I wasn't!"

"Good." Meili began walking towards the door, head over her shoulder. "Now, not one more complaint. Be content. BaBa will meet us at the party and he will want to see you smiling."

She had invoked the one appeal that would win any of them over. Rivalries aside, they would each of them, apart or together, do anything to please their father. And so together they departed from their dressing room, descended the long staircase that led to the front door, Meili, as always, leading the pack. She didn't quite so much walk as pour down the steps, blessed with a feline grace that fell like a killing blow amongst the young men of their station. Of all of them, she was the one destined for that pedestal of admiration, for the bragging rights of landing the biggest catch in the sea.

At least _potentially_, the prediction must always be checked, for she was to be denied any conquest, and therefore any glory, her hand wasted on an arranged betrothal with their cousin Pang that had been unbreakably forged before either of them had left the cradle.

"To keep the fortunes in the family," NaiNai would ruthlessly explain whenever pressed on the matter.

And Meili's marmoreal response would reveal nothing, a mere leisurely puff of her cigarette as she would tell their grandmother: "Fortune, indeed. Of course, I may have married someone even richer, combined the fortunes of two great families rather than hoard what is left of one. But then you always know best." And NaiNai would take Meili to task for the stream of acrid smoke wafting through the room, glowering as if she owned the house and everyone in it.

Not that marriage to Pang was by any means a cruel fate. He was nice enough, as far as bland, conventional men went. But the many optionless years, the steady march towards a fixed point, had formed Meili into ambivalence, an exterior so thick and frigid that to anyone but her nearest kin she seemed as elusive as melting ice, too cold to handle yet vanishing at the first hint of warmth – a stark contrast to her two younger sisters – Jun, who was always so serious, and Xinyi who never seemed to take anything seriously. But while Xinyi had an instinctual kindness that allayed any shortcomings, Jun was the least attractive and vivacious of the three, lunging for any scraps of regard and, in Meili's opinion, seemed more at ease in the shade of a plant than basking in the sun. How she thrived in shadows – or at least felt herself reconciled to them – traipsing along as she always did, just as she did now, in Meili's ineffable wake, nipping at her heels as they walked through the double wide doors and slipped into the waiting car.

Their driver closed the door and surrendered the three to another bout of diversionless company. It was always just the three of them and their talk often proved to be rather circular and boring, though tonight the conversation, the cool air of the car, felt riddled with danger, as if they dangled over a precipice, Jun for the most part staring wordlessly out of the window, though not opposed to lobbing the occasional concise barb, and Xinyi's anxious face darting everywhere.

Meili sighed as she observed her younger sister. Xinyi, the eternal baby, had rather quickly grown up. It made Meili sad in a way she couldn't describe as she watched the passing traffic and listened to BaoBei's prattle.

"But you have not answered my question, JieJie! What do I say if he talks to me?"

"Do not expect me to feed you every line. I have no formulas. You have had your lessons and your practice, and you will have to find the words on your own when the time comes."

Xinyi wrung her hands. She had Meili's full sympathy, and every reason for the nerves which caused her to fidget even more than usual: tonight she would fling herself into the social fray of Shanghai's elites for the very first time. Of course it was only a small party – a trial run, a rehearsal – a chance to get her feet wet before the grand New Years gala where she would make her splash into the world.

But the time was fast approaching, for in a few short weeks it would be here – _the Year of the Horse_ – and it would be _their_ year, BaBa had said. "The year of eight horses!" Fortune for him, for them, a year of unseen prosperity as he climbed forever higher within the ranks of the Kuomintang.

"Hear my words: the Chen family will leave their mark on China," BaBa would say, and then smile coyly. "But not only by me!" He had a generous spirit, their father. Three daughters in succession would evoke for most people a stream of curses followed by an earnest prayer to their ancestors; but BaBa had taken the disappointment in stride. "You are my beautiful daughters," he would say, understanding of this age of glamor that, if played successfully, could allow the Chen daughters to take Shanghai by storm.

The three debarked from the car and passed into the brightly lit home of one of their father's colleagues. Despite trepidation, a portentous feeling of closure that Meili felt with a strength she had never encountered during her long years of betrothal, the evening passed rather uneventfully. Xinyi, as expected, utterly charmed everyone there. But by any standard it was a small success, a provincial night.

And unbeknownst to anyone, it was also the night Xinyi had made up her mind.

She kept her arrangements a secret. Secret cab rides, secret outings, secret giggles shared with her maidservant. "It will be a great surprise!" she had blurted to her empty room. And she went to sleep each night imagining their expressions, as if she had pushed them all straight over a ledge. "What a great shock it will be!"

On the night of the New Year the sisters gathered in the dressing room to prepare for the event, though they were absent one.

"She must have decided to dress in her own room," Meili said with unconcern. But as their wait in the anteroom ticked on into a quarter hour, both impatient to depart so as to not displease their father with tardiness, Jun began to fume.

"Where is she? We are going to be late!"

"Then we will have to be late."

Jun folded her arms. "You always defend her. Even when she doesn't deserve it."

"I shall be the judge of that."

Jun looked as if to say more, but at that moment a flicker of color tumbled down the staircase like a strand of broken, bouncing beads, a trail of flying laughter that followed.

Xinyi touched down on the bottom step. "What do you think?" She proudly displayed herself with a twirl.

Meili couldn't hide her shock, and rendered speechless, Jun's incredulous voice instead filled the void:

"What _are_ you wearing?"

The answer was best conveyed by another twirl, which Xinyi laughingly performed. "Don't you love it?" She lifted both shoulders till they grazed her ears, a cloud of draping, turquoise satin falling down her front, knotted around her waist, and hinged to her mostly exposed back by a large brooch of gold, sparkling stones that clung to the base of her neck.

Meili recovered herself enough to smile. "My my. It will certainly not be what everyone else is wearing." Xinyi laughed, that brazen, artless laugh that more than made up for any other falter. "And it does look good on you," Meili added. "Almost too good, I should say."

"I think it is just perfect! Just exactly what I wanted!"

Meili cocked her head. "And what was it you wanted?"

Hands on her hips, Xinyi held her chin up high. "Something new and exciting!"

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><p><em>1930 was actually a year of the horse, according to a wikipedia article. Qipaos are what we would normally envision when we think of an asian style dress, a one piece with high collars and a slit up the side. The Kuomintang were a ruling party in China, the predecessors of the modern day Nationalists who lost the civil war to the communists in the fifties and have since taken up residence in Taiwan.<em>

_NaiNai - paternal grandmother_

_MeiMei - little sister_

_JieJie - older sister_

_BaoBei - baby_

_Happy year of the horse, and thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Back again! Thanks to foojules for her beta work for this chapter. _

_For ease of reading I'm going to give a quick little legend:_

_Xinyi - Sybil_

_Meili - Mary_

_Jun - Edith_

_NaiNai - Violet_

_Other terms: BaoBei means "baby" and is a term of endearment._

_Also you can check out the accompanying graphic for this chapter at my tumblr blog, sakurasencha-tumblr-com_

_Other A/N at the end._

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><p><strong>Part II: I'm a Communist, Not a Revolutionary<strong>

"What are you wearing?" The question was weighted with reproach, and the crease in his brow clear disfavor.

Xinyi fought to keep her eyes level. "This?" She glanced down as if just noticing she was wearing anything at all, eyes smiling on their way up. "This is just a new dress I picked out the other day. I wanted something different for my big night." She ticked up her voice an octave, pairing it with a winsome smile – her signature maneuver when in need of securing a pardon for her frequent though altogether minor infractions. "I thought I could surprise you!"

"You wanted to surprise me?" Xinyi's smile faltered when she saw her father's jaw clench. This latest antic obviously ranked as a higher offense. "In that regard you have more than succeeded. But this is not a family dinner, Xinyi. We are guests here, and as such should conduct ourselves appropriately." Now the sheer face of his disappointment was fully borne, in his depreciating gaze as it wandered her bare shoulders, his constricting voice all but ready to snap her in half. He spared no ameliorating smile as he said, "I wonder if you considered how your "surprise" would fare when sprung upon those with sensibilities that do not match your own."

Xinyi searched the room. There were indeed eyes upon her, yes – some amused, most others with evident disdain. Xinyi felt devastatingly unarmed, yet she longed for a shield more than a weapon. _Where is Meili when I need her? _

But Meili stood across the room with a drink poised in one hand and a quirked smile on her lips, no doubt trading entendre-laced potshots with Mao, their father's secretary, and forcing Xinyi to bear the brunt of her hasty choices alone.

_Almost_ alone.

"I told her to change, Baba. But she did not listen, as always."

"Thank you, Jun. It was good of you to try." He turned towards her. "And when your elder sister warned you, why did you not listen, Xinyi?"

What reply could save her now? Only that which could change his mind, which never did often happen with her father. So she said nothing, and after a minute of silence her father and his fogging disapproval blew past her, Jun's smug smile not far behind, and Xinyi could finally breathe again. But as her sagging form trailed behind he stopped suddenly and came beside her.

"BaoBei." He spoke with a distant warmth, a remote smile, always just that far out of her grasp that she wondered when she'd stop reaching. "How I wish that you had dressed to command respect rather than attention, for I much prefer to be honored than surprised. And now I will not need to tell you that it was unwise of you to come dressed as you are. While here or anywhere you represent our family – you represent _me_ – in everything you say and do, down to the very stitch." He began to move again. "Do not let it happen again."

Xinyi cast her eyes to the floor. "Yes, Baba. I am sorry."

Her eyes clung to her shoes, and she to her father's shadow as they traversed the breadth of the room. Occasionally her father would spot a face that would rouse him and he would hasten her over to make an introduction, present her like a newly minted coin. "Xinyi, my youngest," he would say with pride. _Ah_, the face would answer back, _what a fine daughter_. And after the shock of her attire wore off she could gauge the face's reaction: the lady wrapped in silk and furs, mouth softening with a remark on how much she resembled her dear mother; the middle-aged man, puffed out in a fitted uniform plumed up and down with medals, and who assessed her with such a detached efficiency that she wondered why she bothered wearing anything at all. And while those X-ray gazes may have unnerved her she ploughed through with a daughter's determination to please, and more importantly the momentum of NaiNai's transcendent prodding – _smile, smile!_

Xinyi soon began to tire of the stream of faces, each one less remarkable than the last, though she was constantly informed of the great honor it was to be meeting whatever face she beheld, all these abundant blessings finally culminating in the fleeting vision of Madame Chiang, the first Lady of China herself, before Madame was snatched up again by the cloying crowd.

Her father did not hide the admiration in his eyes as they followed Madame across the room. "As beautiful and clever as the papers say, do you not think, Xinyi?"

Xinyi was not sure how she could think anything after only a few seconds of viewing and a maternal pat on her hand. But as she watched Madame Chiang, her slight, feminine figure moving like the eye of a hurricane, everyone angling for a bit of her wake, she began to wonder.

"And is General Chiang also here, Baba?"

"No. He had other matters to attend to tonight."

"I see." He must have taken her frown for disappointment, for he placed a placating hand on her shoulder and directed her gaze to a far corner.

"But look - there is Chen Lifu. You have heard me speak of him." Xinyi nodded. Another member of the Central Club Clique, and a compatriot of her father. In quick succession he pointed out several others of the upper echelon that ruled the right leaning branch of the Kuomintang with an iron grip. His point was quickly made and crystal clear: despite their leader's absence, power still walked and talked throughout the room. And her father, who had seen the writing on the wall years ago and had abdicated his place in the old world for an unsteady throne in the new, was counted among them, those who hoped to spread their benevolent and steely grasp to all of China.

Seeing it all laid bare for the first time, the facts spread across black and white newsprint come vividly into chromatic life, Xinyi again began to wonder.

And worry.

"Will the Kuomintang soon be able to secure their power in the North?"

Her father turned to her, amused and slightly surprised at her impromptu question. She had never before asked after his professional life. "It is indeed a surety." He smiled, spoke as if humoring a small bird tapping at the window. "Rest assured, under the guidance of General Chiang, before long we will crush the remaining warlords and bring the rest of the country under our influence."

It was the answer she expected. But despite her nod of agreement her mind spoke murmuring doubts which slipped errantly onto her lips. "Yet sometimes I wonder at what cost…."

He looked at her sharply. "Any cost would be worth a unified and centralized Republic."

"I did not mean –" She stopped abruptly. Because the truth was, she really _did_ mean. And what was more – she felt her meaning had merit.

She ventured cautiously. "Sometimes I read about the fighting –"

"Xinyi." His voice fell like a blade. But his face relaxed as he raised his hand and held her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up toward his – a relic gesture from her girlhood. "You should not trouble yourself over such matters," he said gently.

She tugged her chin from his grasp. "Madame Chiang troubles herself over them."

"But she must. Her fate is bound to the party, for she is wife to its leader." He stared at her directly. "You are wife to no one."

_But that will change_. Oh, she heard the unvoiced warning. It was everywhere tonight, and perhaps long before then. Perhaps she had been hearing it her entire life, in every music lesson or admonition that she eat with manners, conduct herself accordingly. _Isn't that why I'm here_? Not merely to meet the mighty and powerful but to assign herself to one of them – _till death_ – and Xinyi suddenly wished for a thousand new dresses, each one racier than the last.

Eyes wide, she almost held a hand over her mouth. _Treacherous thoughts_! She had never before felt such rebellion against her father, the feelers of the malcontent spreading within her breast. And while the society page would no doubt smooth over her style faux pas and report only the glassy surface of her debut, everything about this night would be overshadowed by a singular realization:

There was much that Xinyi did not understand, and not by her own design.

Xinyi felt suddenly tired, and touched a hand to her head. "I am not feeling so well. I think I shall go home."

A twinge of alarm crept into her father's eyes. "Nothing serious, Baobei?"

"Only a small headache." She smiled. "But the smoke is making it worse. You do understand?"

"Of course." He watched her pensively for a second. Then his eyes melted somewhat and he bent over and kissed her head. "I do love you."

"I know." But she could not find it in herself to smile. So she bowed her head, retrieved her coat and slipped it on, departed from the grand manor into a midnight that felt damp and cool, breeze fresh off the river chilling her bare skin as she approached the long row of stacked taxis that lined the curb, choosing one at random.

It was dark inside the car, refreshingly quiet.

"18 Zonghua Road."

The car crawled into a vacancy on the taxi-clad street and made a course for the wealthy enclaves of the Huangpu District. Xinyi turned her head towards the window. She watched the passing landmarks illuminated by the red glow of New Year's lanterns, examined the reflection that ghosted onto the glass as they drove by the infrequent street lamp. Its features were void, perfectly undisturbed.

Inside she withered. _Do not let it happen again_, still echoed in her ears. And beneath the torment of her father's ill gaze she felt something more, a writhing voice speaking, questioning, _demanding_ – will a single dress tear down their burgeoning empire? Or merely her own, long foretold future?

_What is it that he fears_?

Xinyi frowned. The silence was thick when her arch voice sliced cleanly through.

"Do you like my dress?" She spoke in a lazy lilt, as if addressing the question to no one in particular. For his part the driver said nothing, gave no reaction at all but a slight awakening around his eyes which she observed as they slid briefly to the mirror. "My father did not," she added in lieu of explanation.

His mouth stayed closed. He stared ahead at the road. She could not make out much from the back of his motionless head, and after some time she gave up hope for a reply, and closed her eyes.

She was near to dozing. Her head lolled against the seat.

"He may have found it unseemly."

Her eyes snapped open. "Do _you_ find it unseemly?"

"No." She smiled, enjoying this small, private victory. "I find it decadent," he went on, "which to some is a far greater sin."

Xinyi covered her shock with a blazing smile, then a tinkling laugh. "You men and your flying ideas - it is just a dress!"

He bowed his head. "To some."

"And to others?"

"A symbol of what they do not and will never have."

Xinyi pushed herself up and leaned forward. _That _was something she had never heard before. And she wanted to hear more. "Go on."

She saw him tense, sensed he felt he may have trespassed a step too far. "I am not sure it is my place to be schooling one of my passengers. Especially one like you."

"One like me?" She cocked her head. "You mean a woman?"

"I mean a _rich_ woman. Or rather, a daughter of a very rich man. One of the rulers of Shanghai, I should think."

"Do you think?" What Xinyi thought was that he showed a fair amount of presumption for someone afraid of overstepping boundaries. "My father does not rule anything," she said smoothly. "And the truth is, I do not get taught much of anything, either, so I will gladly take any lesson offered."

"Even from your driver?"

"Hmm..." She tapped a finger against her chin, then laughed brightly. "That must depend on the driver!"

He laughed in return. But there was no edge in his laughter, none of the faint derision that riddled his earlier sermonizing. He laughed like they were old friends, and perhaps they were. Who knows how many times this particular driver may have ferried her about Shanghai? Before tonight, she'd never bothered looking farther than her own knees while lounging in a cab.

"How did you like your party tonight?" he asked.

"Not much at all."

"Too much good food for your taste? Or was it the fine wine that you objected to?"

She crossed her arms against her chest. "Do you enjoy picking at everything I say?" But when he skipped his eyes to the mirror Xinyi saw they were not in earnest, rather teasing with a hint of smirk playing around the corner of his mouth, not daring enough to fully reveal. "All right," she relented. "So it could have been worse. The food was spectacular, and I did get to meet Madame Chiang." Her voice rose with a bounce. "She was very beautiful and lively. Everyone followed her around like little ducklings. And they say the people in America just adore her."

He was silent. "I am sure the Americans do," he said flatly, pressing the words out as if it pained him.

Xinyi frowned. She hoped this man's driving was not as tempestuous as his moods. "You do not sound as if you think that a compliment."

He laughed again, this time as if they were old enemies. "America. England. France. How many countries own a parcel of our city? They wish to mold Shanghai into their image, and they will do the same with all of China. Look around," he said, inclining his head towards his side window. "You said it 'depended on the driver,' and I tell you that any driver could serve as your tutor, because we have all driven down every street of this city long enough to know: To your right, poverty. To your left, a country besieged by foreign interests."

Xinyi looked to her right. All she saw was a blurred darkness. She looked to her left and said, "I do not think you will find anyone who does not want China for China. To see our country free and mighty." Then she began to recite the creed often heralded by her father: "Nationalism, democracy, and –"

"Livelihood?" The driver shook his head. "Your people have levied heavy expectations on the populace, made even heavier promises, and what has become of them? They grow armies rather than food, destroy those who oppose them rather than feed bellies."

The last he said with apparent malice and Xinyi could almost hear the final piece clicking into place. "Oh!" Her mouth held onto the sound, low and long until it petered into his silence. "Are you a communist?" Her hushed whisper sounded too loud in the small cab. He said nothing, which in itself said everything, even without his rigid back and blanched knuckles betraying him. "But I did not think there were any of you left in Shanghai!" she added eagerly. "Are you part of the Red Army? Of course you can trust me; I won't tell any –"

She pitched forward, face nearly smashed against the driver's seat as the car came to a dead halt. When she looked up she saw the face of her companion for the first time, dark skin, hair recently trimmed and styled neatly. And his eyes were large and angry. "Are you truly so curious? Or do you, like so many others, merely like playing games? With words and rhetoric – with people's _lives_, while the streets of Shanghai were painted red with the blood of my comrades!"

Xinyi's words strangled to a close, her throat feeling scratchy, dry as her eyes opened wide against the parched winter air and the searing wrath in his gaze. It was not many years ago when she heard the cries rise up from the streets. There was never anyone bleeding outside of her window, but every now and again she would glimpse an anguished face, the sound of a wail as she was quickly escorted away. Thousands upon thousands of communists, they said, purged from Shanghai and beyond, and her father regaled them during dinner of the _vast victory_.

"No," she finally whispered. "I am sorry –"

She opened the door and fled.

"Wait." But she was already out of the car, darting around slow wagons and staggering pedestrians as she crossed the road. "Wait!"

He caught her by the arm half a block away. She could barely hear him over the crackle of a nearby fireworks and the pounding blood in her temples, but whatever her ears missed she read plainly in his eyes. "I am sorry," he said. "It was not right to speak to you so. Please, come back inside. Please – let me drive you home. It is not safe here."

"Not safe for who? A woman? A _rich_ woman?"

"For anybody."

She considered a second escape. This man was volatile and she seemed to do nothing but spark his fury. But the night was growing colder and there was true remorse in his eyes, so she let him lead her back to the car.

He closed the door behind her, and they said nothing for the rest of the journey.

When they eased onto the drive of her palatial home they sat in a wilting silence until Xinyi could bear it no longer, and touched her fingers to the handle.

"I was not always driven by anger." Her hand stilled. She turned back and saw him staring at her. In the half shadows she found him strong and handsome. And his eyes were large and sorrowful. "Once I felt I worked for a purpose. To make China the nation it should be. Where everyone could be free and equal, where people like you could have a different life."

"People like me…." Xinyi held her breath. "What do you mean?"

"I may not know your name, or your father's name. But I know who you are, and I know who he is. I know, because I drive you around, dozens of you, every day. From mansions to parties to lessons and back again." As he watched her Xinyi felt as though his eyes must have burned twin holes straight through to her heart and lit it on fire. "I know what your life is," he said slowly, "and more importantly, I know what your life is not."

"And what is that?"

"Your own."

Xinyi looked down and chewed on her lower lip. "Maybe once a hundred years ago that was true. But China is changing."

"Not that fast. And not quickly enough for you." He fished around in his coat. "I shall give this to you, if you will have it." He extended what looked like a set of bound papers in his hand. Soon Xinyi was perusing a pamphlet detailing portions of communist ideology, particularly the movement denouncing patriarchy, extolling the sweeping liberation of women. It was the first time Xinyi had ever been informed that there was anything from which she needed liberation, and the first few lines alone – _freedom over family; truth over tradition_ – set the rest of her aflame.

"Thank you." Her hands quavered as she folded the contraband into quarters. "Of course, I can not let anyone see me with this. I shall have to hide it."

He appraised the meager hiding spots afforded by her slip of a dress. "Where?"

Her mouth fell open. "You should not be wondering." She opened the door, then hesitated and asked, "Driver, what is your name?"

"Bai." He nodded once. "Tung Bai."

She smiled. "I am Xinyi." She lingered for a second more. She opened her mouth, but all that left it was a perfunctory, "Goodnight," before she stepped out onto the drive and closed the car door behind her.

She was three steps from the door when she heard it. "Xinyi!" She turned around, one eyebrow raised. "One thing I did not say about your dress."

"Yes?"

He smiled. "I like it very much."

Something stirred her just then, spurred her to remove a slip of paper from her bag, scratch out a few lines, then rush back to meet him. "On Tuesday mornings I take music lessons," she said in a single, breathless rush. The slip of paper was pressed into his hand. "Our driver takes me there, but I always take a taxi home. 11:00, sharp."

Tung narrowed his eyes at the writing in his palm – an address in the French Concession. He looked at her keenly, and with a fair dose of skepticism. "Is this a job offer?"

She didn't answer, only smiled again, walking slowly backwards towards the house.

She waved before she stepped inside.

NaiNai assaulted her straightaway. "Xinyi? Why are you home so early?"

She shrugged. "I got bored! Isn't it something, but after all the fuss I find that I do not care for parties after all." She laughed as if she had made a great joke. _And perhaps I have_, she wondered. Maybe this whole life was a joke, one giant farce concocted over her cradle, and she'd been living out a grand parody for all these eighteen years without even knowing it.

The clock struck midnight as she kicked off her shoes – a new year – and a smile spread across her face.

She hoped come Tuesday she would begin to find out.

* * *

><p><em>Historical Notes:<em>

_-Central Club Clique was basically as I described, a layman (non-milatary) group of high profile leaders in the right leaning branch of the KMT._

_-General Chiang was the de facto ruler of the KMT during this time period._

_-In 1927 thousands of communists were purged from Shanghai and other parts of China as part of the struggle for power between the KMT and the CPC._

_So just very generally I want to say that this fanfic has no intention of making any kind of judgements etc on any political party, past or present. It's trying to tell a story within the context of the time period, and naturally certain facets of those political parties will arise, along with character judgements and opinions (that don't necessarily bear any resemblance to my own). Also as this story deals with real life events and cultures, I want to make a huge, meaty disclaimer that I am in no way an expert on Chinese history and culture. I've done the best I can within my means, but there are going to be mistakes. Feel free to pm me if you notice anything wildly inaccurate._


	3. Chapter 3

_So I've had this written for ages and am just now posting it because life has gotten manageable again. A big thanks to foojooles who betad this a loooong time ago._

* * *

><p><strong>A Bright Spark<strong>

Tung arrived home just as pale dawn made its first incisions into the thick darkness of his parlor. Aided by the scant light, he fumbled his way inside, creaking hinges welcoming him home, the light jangle of keys as he placed them onto a hook by the door, the sound of that same door closing in a decisive thud – a fitting punctuation to the end of a long, worn out night.

In the dwindling gloom he rustled off his jacket and hung it up on the hook next to his keys, unlaced each boot and set the pair under his suspended jacket. He walked into the parlor that doubled as a kitchen. Squinting, he discerned the outline of a sink groaning with old, encrusted dishes, and decided to forgo a quick bite before bed. But he made time to clear off a small spot on the cluttered table, placed Xinyi's slip of paper directly onto the greasy surface.

Tung stared at its immaculate script for a moment before covering it with a book, the title illuminated by a slanting blade of light. _Das Kapital._

He hoped he would forget about it come afternoon.

Tung felt his way upstairs, rubbed his eyes before lying down. He counted backwards from one thousand. This was a tried and true method for him, and it eventually prevailed. He slept. But his sleep was fitful and desultory, and close to noon he awoke still tired, stretched, and climbed out of bed. He stared at bloodshot eyes in the mirror, rotely readying himself for the day, dressing, shaving, grooming; a bowl of rice with egg before plunging into the stacks of newspapers that flanked the door like twin sentries as he sipped a steaming cup of tea.

Tung frowned as he flipped through the pages. The news was troubling. The news was always troubling, whether the lines on the page or what he read between them. Years and years ago he devoured the papers with an inquisitive, bouncing zeal – a feeling long since blanched by the scorching heat of experience, morphed into a grueling exercise that seemed bent on slowly destroying him page by ever disturbing page. Rhetoric he enjoyed, blood not so much, and his whole country – and everyone in it – seemed permanently stained with it.

He subscribed to three dailies and he read each one cover to cover. The tea sat half drunk, cold on the table. The clock on the wall yelled at him – thirty minutes till his shift. Tung was nothing if not an impeccable employee, and dutifully rose. But for an untimed moment he stood motionless in the kitchen, staring out the eastward window to read the sky, which unlike people never went back on its word. Right now the unmarred blue promised him sun and plenty of it, despite the chilliness assumed for late January. Happy rays charged in, highlighted every stale, undusted corner of his home, and the white corner of Xinyi's paper peaked out from under the book like a burst of fresh air, seemed to wave him goodbye when he closed the door behind him.

Tung clocked in with two minutes to spare. He drove the black sedan to his standard pickup points, the wide streets that bordered the Huangpu River – the Bund – the glossy financial district boasting its fabled high risers, splashes of art deco that lended the city its renown cosmopolitan flare. The area crawled with foreigners, diplomats, politicians, the grossly wealthy businessmen – all with the constant need for transportation. Generally speaking, his fares were comprised of the usual stock: the educated, rich, and powerful – yet of a wide assortment of character. European and Chinese. Old money and new. They all revolved through his cab and they all left their own unique imprint on the backseat. Some were noted for their small talk, others for their silence. Still others bled his ears off.

Tung drove. The city rarely slept, and Tung never wasted time on the yawning districts. The cab door opened and closed. The leather soaked up bubbling laughter, the smolder of a drunken tryst. Tears that were never remarked on and gratefully forgotten once his fare handed over the proper fee. The night grew darker, then lighter. Dawn approached. At the same time as always, Tung returned the car and clocked out.

After twelve hours of sitting, it always came as a relief to feel the pushback of the pavement on his soles, flex his stiffened muscles and joints. Tung walked and walked through encroaching morning until he reached the dilapidated longdang alley, those narrow walkways that were the mainstay communities of urban Shanghai, and to which his home belonged.

Laden laundry lines that stretched across the row, both sides of the alley hosting long slabs of abutting houses. Not so much a scourge on the city as the roaming army of mendicants, Tung knew via his clients that these longdangs were considered tolerable by the upper crust, an unavoidable consequence of the village masses flocking to the city to partake in its jostling and crowded lifestyle. A neighborhood with no elbow room, Tung was forced to step around the clutter – leaning bicycles, overfilled baskets, the garbage heaps of lazy dwellers – as cleanly as he did the nosy questions of his neighbors, finally pushing open the heavy shikumen gate to his tenement.

The courtyard thrived with weeds. Tung strode through without a sideways glance, opened the front door and slipped inside. Unloading his accoutrements by the door, he stifled a yawn. The previous, sleepless night had meted its due effects. Exhaustion defined him. Each limb felt to be heaving its final breath as he hauled them up the stairs to his unkempt bedroom, where he promptly undressed and collapsed into bed.

He closed his eyes and counted backwards from one thousand.

On eight hundred he pushed himself up and padded downstairs to the kitchen. _Das Kapital_. He fingered its bridge. He used to read to relax, and picked up the book, thumbing through the first few chapters. Every other paragraph, then every other line, finally every other word he chanced to glance down at the small scrap of paper and its dancing, delicate script.

The sun crawled higher. Tung reshelved the book and climbed the stairs back to his bedroom. The paper he left, and reminded himself to throw it out once he awoke.

But Tung woke up late, sleep deprived and over tired, no seconds to spare for tossing out any troubling bits of paper that flashed at him like white flames from his small, cluttered table as he hurried out the door.

Tung's boss shook his head when he swept into the garage, and pointed at the clock. _Two minutes late_. An extra hour was tacked onto the end of his shift to make up for the offense.

Tung drove. His job was much like rereading a single page over and over. Such repetitive motion, Tung thought as he nodded off waiting for his next fare, made for either excellence or sloppiness. One day he would be lathered in bromides for decades of faultless service or wrapped around an unsuspecting lamp post, a cab full of dead bodies and him asleep at the wheel. On this night he was neither, and returned the car without a scratch at its appointed time.

Arriving home, Tung stumbled through the gate, through the door, up the stairs. Shutting his bedroom door, he glanced down to the floor, which looked rather an inviting bed for its expedience; but he summoned the will to stagger the few steps to crash onto his blankets, sinking into the mattress.

He counted backwards from one thousand. _Eight hundred eighty two. Eight hundred eighty one_. He flipped this way and that. _Six hundred forty six. Six hundred forty five._

But as with the night before, and the night before that, his beleaguered consciousness refused to relinquish the vision of her face, nor the voice that twined through every idle thought – bright, thirsting, unforgettable – every timbre undulled and unaffected. A voice that belied the claims of her frippery, the unworn face bedecked with jewels, and which possessed a hungry, beguiling naivete. She did not sound the way she looked, and she looked nothing like how she sounded: a great beauty without great boredom. A young mind without childish aspirations. He could not let the thought of her go, this enigma that wholly aroused his interests – yet what a precarious liaison, if pursued. But even the danger worked to hold him captive, his heart fickle as the tides, an intermingling of desire, blood, curiosity, and fear.

_Fear._ Fear was another stranglehold that kept him awake at night. Fear was a powerful motivator for one such as him. Since his Party's ousting and extermination from Shanghai, life for Tung and his comrades had been like walking a tightrope with no safety net. A single misstep and he'd be nothing but another body piled onto the heap that no one in China cared about.

But other fears of equal magnitude lurked, those of a spiritual death, if not quite a physical one. Monotony was his current standard of living. Isolation and censorship carried a sting as sharp as any physical blow. Clock in, clock out, head down and mouth shut. Tung had once been a ready chatter. He used to burst with complex, woven thoughts that he could pluck out at will like a single grain of rice, lay them precisely alongside each other into neat and logical lines of argument. Now the sound of his own voice seemed strange in his ears. _Do I even have any ideas left?_ He was certainly running low on ideals. After so long living in this intellectual dormancy his mind felt atrophied, his thoughts churned together into a quagmire.

And then one night this bright creature had stepped into his cab and begun talking to him, _questioning_ him, and it had felt so incredibly good to express himself openly. Good to talk to another human being rather than a half empty cup of tea, and the urge to feel that bit of spark that her conversation had ignited was overwhelming.

Stupid, but overwhelming.

So Tung made his decision, and the next morning slipped her paper in his jacket pocket from which it never left.

His sleep improved, albeit slightly. Doubt simmered, though he alleviated the slow burn by spinning logic into his favor, the kind of mental acrobatics that came easily to any practiced debater. _This woman could be my undoing_. But didn't he trust his instincts in most things? She didn't at all appear the bloodthirsty sort – it was the reason he had opened up to her in the first place, reckless as it was, as distant fireworks rang in the New Year and she toyed with the furbelow of her gown in the electric darkness.

_I want to see her again_. Maybe that was his real source of dread. So he consoled himself with the notion that her appeal lay solely in the mystery. An engineer to the core, Tung was a fool for a puzzle, why he involved himself with cars in the first place. A second viewing would unravel her, lay waste to her allure, and perhaps he could finally sleep again, that sound, soulless sleep – a sleep without dreams, yes, but more importantly one without nightmares.

The boss quirked his eyebrow when Tung told him Monday next that if it were not too much hassle, he'd take the morning shift on Tuesday. But Mr. Chow didn't press the point, simply penned the new hours into the schedule and told Tung he'd be covering for Chong who was out with the flu anyway.

The next morning, Tung woke up early. Eyes alert and darting, he drummed his fingers for ten minutes on the table, watching the hands on the clock, waiting for the time to wind down. A cup of cold tea sat filled to the brim on the table. The papers lay untouched by the door.

He left for work early. With ten minutes to go until the start of his shift, he settled into his taxi. His back sat rigid in the seat. He ran his palms over the black leather of the steering wheel, and checked the address a fifth time.

He pulled out of the garage five minutes ahead of his schedule. He picked up four fares along the Bund. At 10:30, Tung moved off from his regular locations and entered the French concession, rolling along the decadent Avenue Joffre, pure excess oozing out of every lush storefront and boutique. At 10:45, he pulled up to the curb of an old yet well kept building in one of the lavish residential districts.

At 10:50, restless, he opened the car door and poked his head out, breathed in the rush of cool air. One leg bouncing, at 10:57 he silenced the tick by stepping fully outside. He shut the door, ran his hands through his meticulously groomed hair and leaned against the car, hands in pockets.

At 10:58 the torrential madness of it all struck with the force of a bullet.

He was going to die. He was a communist consorting with the sworn enemy, an enemy sworn to destroy him, and he was going to die. Heart pounding, he swiftly turned around, door halfway open and one leg nearly inside.

"Hello."

Tung bit back a curse. _Too late_. Behind him she surely stood poised like a tiger, and Tung had no option but to turn back around and face the pounce.

Tung closed the door. He turned around. Under an unhindered sun she wore a reserved smile and a flattering day dress of white and green, one hand shading a pair of wide, excited eyes. And she resembled nothing like a tiger, or indeed any dangerous thing, her hair pinned up at the sides with colorful barrettes that sparkled with every small motion.

He nodded once. "Hello." Still several paces off, Xinyi walked timidly forward, shifting a flower-patterned clutch from one hand to another. When she was at last at arms length she narrowed her eyes, examining him in the new conditions of friendliness and daylight. "It _is _you." Her face burst open with the delight of clapping hands. Tung's smile was partly dazed. He wondered what he had been so afraid of. "I just knew you would come," she said.

Her confidence amused him, and he opened his mouth to respectfully disagree. But she was distracted for a moment with casting a quick glance over her shoulder. Tung followed her line of sight to where a severely eyebrowed woman glowered at them from the second story window. "Your chaperone?" he asked as her mouth sank into a frown.

Xinyi sighed. She looked back at him, faint hues of embarrassment seeping up from her neckline. "I would not say that, exactly. But Mrs. Hong is tasked with seeing that I make it safely into a taxi bound for home rather than wandering off into the wilds of the city." She looked back at Mrs. Hong who was as a statue in her vigil. "My father may not be the most attentive, but he is not stupid."

"Three young daughters with no one to mind them?" Tung's eyes glanced up, opening the back seat door and motioning for her to enter. "I can not imagine his concern."

Xinyi said nothing, and cast a final look over her shoulder before she slid with graceful comportment inside. Tung shut the door behind her and walked around to the driver's side. Hands at the wheel, feet at the pedals, when he settled into his seat he found Xinyi already there, leant across the partition of space between them, a bright and eager voice uncomfortably close in his ear. "Everyone accuses daughters of being nothing but trouble, but I think we are a harmless breed – for the most part." He could almost hear her smile.

"'For the most part' - the loophole of every fallacy."

"Do not tell me you do not agree," she huffed. "Well. I suppose, then, you would have more experience. I only have my sisters and myself to go by, and in your line of work… you must have a few tales to tell."

Her breath tickled his neck as she spoke. Tung resisted the urge to squirm, and flashed her a frown in the mirror. "I assure you I do not."

"How long have you been working in the city?" she asked with a laugh. "You will not convince me that you have never been an audience to the kind of debauchery my grandmother always warns me befalls disobedient young ladies."

Tung started the engine. "I don't mean to. And you can tell your grandmother that in my vast experience imagination often outstrips reality." He peeled away from the curb.

"So nothing lurid?"

"Nothing uncommon. Nothing that would surprise anyone who knew anything about people." They came to the end of the residential road, which intersected at a T. Tung slowed the car to a roll, then a dead stop. He craned his neck over his shoulder, alarmed to find they were nearly nose-to-nose. He stiffened and shifted back. "So what now?" he asked. She looked to the floor. The engine continued to idle. Tung was somewhat amazed at how aggrandized this encounter had become in his mind, how little he'd planned beyond the flying leap of showing up, all that build up deflated with a sharp jab of pragmatism, a short chuckle and, "I suppose I should drive you home."

Xinyi flung herself back into her seat with a mighty sigh. She crossed her arms. "Yes, I suppose you should." Tung smiled. _She spares nothing, that one_. She stared out the window, her face a downpour.

"And judging from the precaution of the watchful Mrs. Hong, I assume we shouldn't dawdle."

"Oh, you would be exactly right."

"Someone impatiently waiting for your safe arrival back at your home, I take it?"

"That would be NaiNai. I must be home at 11:30, on the dot, or heads will roll." She groaned, one hand over her brow. "Mostly my own." She straightened up and leaned forward again. "But I find it insupportable. I can not tell you how many times I have been cut down with a line about how I should curb my tongue, my dress and my actions because I am an adult, and yet I am still treated like a child." She took a deep, long suffering breath. "I would go anywhere if it meant not going home. That house is where my day goes to die."

"It can not be all bad."

"Thirty rooms with no one in them, except NaiNai's nagging in my ear and my forever bickering sisters."

Tung glanced at the mirror. "And the servants."

Her mouth quirked. "And the servants." She raised her chin, nose angled upwards. "But if you think they like to keep _my_ company, you would be very mistaken." Tung erupted with a laugh, though he did not mean to. But with her alacrity and irresistible sincerity, a provocative combination despite her now injured demeanor, he simply could not keep it smothered. And to own the truth, he had an impossible time envisioning anyone not wanting to keep her company. "I am not joking," she continued, eyes narrowed. "I made friends once, with one of the maids. She wanted to acquire sponsorship to move to America. I wrote a few letters on her behalf…I thought it could help..." She trailed off into silence.

"But?"

Xinyi sighed. "My father found out. He was furious – to this day I can not tell you why – and he fired her on the spot!" Color burned at each of cheek.

Tung's mind worked quickly and vibrantly, and it conjured a pair of waxing smiles hatching schemes. Two dark heads, one adorned with gems and another with a gleaming white cap, bent together, working together towards a unified goal. Then he saw a thin, bereft girl wandering the streets of Shanghai, feet cracked and bloody as they dragged through the shards of a smashed and beaten dream in search of new employment. Across the city a glimmering girl walked gaily, enduringly, gently chipped away by a daily dose of micro disappointments.

And yet she still seemed so enamored with life and its possibilities, smiled and laughed like the world was her oyster, despite being quite aware, Tung was sure, that she was entirely a locked up pearl, ready to be auctioned to the highest bidder, whether of money, power, or connections.

Tung could tell her why her housemaid friend had been fired. The school of reality was a difficult master, and he had been under its tutelage since birth. But it was highly possible that behind the gauzy veil, deep inside where turmoil wrestled with her smile, she knew the reasons. "So why taxis?" he asked instead. "Do you not have a car and driver?"

"Of course we do. But it is for my father's personal use. He goes out nearly everyday, so we take taxis or arrange around his schedule." Her eyes went wide. "One would _think_ it would afford us a bit of extra freedom, but then my grandmother is despotic." She smiled and said, "But I did not ask you to come to talk about my life at home."

Tung stayed silent a moment. He said, "Why did you ask to see me again?" The words came out clipped and heavy.

"Surely…" Xinyi nudged forward. "You are not suspicious of me? I would never –" Her mouth fell open, as if even the suggestion, so much as speaking it aloud were some kind of treason.

"Of course I am not. But I am curious."

"Ah." She shrugged. "Only, I liked our conversation. I did not want it to end. The things you said to me the other night, about women like me and not having my own life – I have not stopped thinking about that all week."

"And the pamphlet?"

She waved a hand. "Most of it is incomprehensible to me, as you must already know. It was full of jargon and catchphrases, "dictatorship of the proletariat." But, the parts I did understand..." She grinned. "I very much liked."

"As good a start as any. Then would you like to be enlightened on the parts you do not understand?"

"Why do you think I am in this car?"

Tung shrugged. "I was told you needed a lift home every Tuesday."

"I know all about Baba and the Kuomintang. What I want is to hear different ideas and opinions." She raised her hands, laid them side by side. "Hold them up one against the other."

"To compare them."

"To see which one suits me best."

"Which one you would want to believe in."

"Which one I would want to work for."

Tung paused. "You want to know your own mind."

"Yes! And believe me, when I know my mind you will also know my mind. And I am not liable to change it."

"Stubborn?"

She smiled. "What do you think?"

"I think your education has been far too one sided for someone so keen."

"Well. Maybe you can teach me another way."

"A better way?"

Xinyi laughed. "We shall see." She glanced out the window. Tung's expertise as a driver had served them well; muscle memory had kicked in and unbeknownst to either of them, the car was idling on the drive of Xinyi's home. She sighed. "And there is NaiNai, prowling. Do you see her darting at the window?"

Tung shifted a glance towards the window. A hunched creature, wrinkled and every bit as intimidating as protective grandmothers ought to be, stalked with the air of a predator out for a kill. He laughed. "She is terrifying."

The engine quietly rumbled. Xinyi chewed on her lip. "I should go." She exited the car in a clean motion and stood briefly by the window, cast a swift glance at the door. Then she leaned over slightly and looked inside the car, their eyes locked. "Now, will I see you again next week?"

Tung's eyes cut away. He looked out through the windshield, bowed his head to the grim reflection in the glass. "Good day, Xinyi."

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><p><em>At this point, I don't think I will finish the story. I do have some material for the next few chapters so I may post something in the future, but I've largely moved on from DA so this may end up becoming one of the great unfinished.<em>


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